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the smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re so damned smart, I don’t think you need anyone’s help to complete your escape.” And if you hadn’t dropped the word “defector”, he thought as he stared at those unreadable eyes, I wouldn’t have spent another two minutes on you; you aren’t the kind of refugee who needs any aid or comfort. What are you—defector, or agent for Castro’s Cuba? “In any case, there isn’t much you can expect here, except a bed and food and new clothes. That’s all Tavita ever provided, first to her brother, then to his friends, and then to friends of his friends. It has been mostly a family affair.”
    “I know that. Don’t worry; I kept this ‘family affair’, as you call it, out of our files. It seemed to me, when I first discovered it, that it could have its uses. Tavita does owe me her brother’s life. But to be quite frank, I didn’t come here to ask Tavita’s help. I want yours.”
    “Mine?”
    “You have an organisation behind you. The CIA. That is what I need now. Fully, organised help.”
    “You’re being ridiculous.” Reid stubbed out the cigarette that was almost singeing a fingernail, glanced at his watch. Pablo’s dance was over. From the courtyard came a muted minor scale. Miguel and his song about blighted love seemed very far away. “I think I’d better return to my friend,” Reid said, rising. “Tavita would like you to leave. Find someone else to help you. We can’t.”
    The man hadn’t moved. “Sit down,” he said quietly. “Do you think I am here to spy on you? I tell you the truth. I am a defector.”
    “Then go to the American Embassy. Ask them for help. Come to think of it, why didn’t you slip into the United States and defect right there?”
    “Because I do not intend to live in the United States. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life evading exiled Cubans, or Castro’s agents, or—” He paused, then ended, “Or the KGB.”
    Now, wondered Reid quickly, how had Soviet Intelligence come slipping in there? And which branch of it—internal security or foreign espionage? He sat down again. “Why not add some of Mao’s boys to the list?”
    “Your renegades, your black revolutionaries, your visiting students from friendly foreign countries? Yes, there are plenty of them around in your United States.” He reached over the table suddenly, picked up Reid’s lighter. “Always obedient, always helpful,” he went on as he turned the lighter over in his hands. It was made of dark polished steel, with a small brass insigne on its smooth surface for sole decoration. “What’s this?” he asked, examining it. “Oh, yes, Air Force. Of course.” He glanced up quickly at Reid, but the American seemed to be little interested; he was still waiting for a direct answer to his question. “Yes, the Chinese communists would be curious, too. If they knew I was alive.”
    “Oh—so you’re dead, are you?” Reid put a cigarette between his lips.
    “Assassinated in Mexico.”
    Reid held out a hand for his lighter. “Now how did that happen?”
    The man balanced the lighter in his hand, then tossed it back. “The fishing boat on which I was meeting two Mexican comrades exploded and burned.”
    Reid lit his cigarette, dropped the lighter back on the table beside his pack. “Just five minutes after you timed your departure?”
    The man studied Reid deliberately. For a moment, Reid wondered if he had pushed too far: obviously, if any acid comments were going to be handed out, this man would insist on dealing them. The man said coldly, “Ten minutes.”
    “And no questions asked?”
    “Immediately? No, I think not. There was an attempt on my life last year. In Havana. I used that incident to make my death acceptable. Of course—once investigations are made and cannot uncover who ordered my execution—there could be serious doubts. Unless I accomplish what I mean to do: drop completely out of sight, stay out of sight, have no